Footsteps of the Hawk (4 page)

"Are you
listening
to me?" she finally said.

"Sure."

"Listen, Burke, you're not the only one with problems. Everybody has to carry their own baggage through life."

"But everybody doesn't have to go through Customs, do they, little bitch?" I asked, my voice gentle.

I don't know why that started her crying, but I held her against my chest until she was done.

I
pulled my car out of the hotel's underground garage, thinking about how Vyra had offered me money again—she was one of those goodhearted women who could offer to lend you money without wanting your balls for a down payment. And my ego wasn't stupid enough to tell her I still had a big piece of my last score stashed away.

I don't want to live large—it just makes you a bigger target. I live a small, low–maintenance life. I'm just trying to get through it.

I was just trying to get through the intersection at West Broadway and Chambers, heading for the West Side Highway, when it happened. I was coming through at the same time as a bright lipstick–red low–slung sports coupe—a Dodge Stealth, it looked like. My Plymouth has so many dents in its primer–coated body that I usually carry major bargaining power over any contested space in city traffic, but the driver of the red car wasn't having any, bulling his way through, oblivious to the blaring horns and screech of brakes. I let him through, tucked in behind, followed him to the Highway.

He made the right turn ahead of me. I cranked the wheel hard into the service road and pulled ahead. I took a quick glance at the red Stealth—it sported blackout windows and I couldn't see inside. I felt it somewhere to my left but, after a while, I couldn't even pick it up in my left–side mirror.

The Highway forked just before the Meat Market. I stayed right, heading for the whore stroll on Tenth Avenue. A working girl was having trouble leaving her pimp—and she'd gotten word out to me. I promised the broker who gave me the word that I'd listen to the offer, make my decision after I'd heard the pitch.

I was motoring sedately along Tenth Avenue when the idiot in the red Stealth shot across my bow at Eighteenth Street, sliding so I'd have to hit him or stop. I floored the brakes—crazy bastard. I was checking the rearview mirror to see if there was room to back away when I heard a car door slam. A man with the build of a fire hydrant was walking toward my car. Walking fast. I recognized him. Morales, the no–neck thug who partnered with McGowan for NYPD.

Damn.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, put on a "What the hell's this all about?" expression. Morales stepped right into my face, showing teeth. It wasn't a smile.

"I fucking
thought
that was you," he snarled.

"What's the beef?" I asked him.

"Oh, let me see. Burke, right? What
could
the beef be? Parking tickets? Drunk driving? No…how about fucking homicide, that more up your alley?"

"We already did this once," I reminded him, keeping my voice soft. It's a tightrope dance with Morales. He's a pit bull in human form—you show him fear and you're done. But if you challenge him, that just lights his fuse. With Morales, the only safe place is
away.

Traffic flowed past. The drivers didn't rubberneck us—it takes more than a couple of men talking in the street to get attention around here.

"I never mind going another round," Morales said. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this house up in the Bronx, would you? A house with all kinds of dead bodies in it. Kid's body too. A little kid. You know anything about that, Burke?"

"No. Was it in the papers?"

"Yeah, motherfucker, it was in the papers. All
over
the papers, a couple a years back. Remember now?"

"It doesn't ring a bell," I told him, keeping my eyes away from his. Morales wouldn't take that as a sign of guilt: his eyes are little black ball bearings—nobody ever looks into them long.

"Let me help you with that," Morales said. "There was a bunch of baby–raping freaks, some kind of cult, making torture films. They fucked up a little kid, fucked him up real bad. And you know what this little kid did, Burke? He fucking killed a baby.
Killed
him, okay? Canceled his ticket, took his fucking life, all right? A little tiny baby…So we're talking to the DA's office. City–Wide Special Victims. Woman named Wolfe, maybe you heard of her?"

I kept my eyes on the middle distance between us, staying out of focus, not saying a word. Morales was hitting too close to home, and he'd never be cool enough to just leave it there.

"No, huh?" he sneered. "I guess fucking not. Anyway, we put it together. Put it together
slow,
see? Like we're gonna make a case,
prosecute
the miserable slime. But they disappear, just fucking vanish, okay? Now, they're
around,
way we understand it. Somewhere close. Turns out they were holed up in the South Bronx. In one of those rehabbed joints, right next to a burn–out. So we're ready to roll, just waiting on the warrants and all. And you know what happens then, Burke?"

I stayed in the middle distance, feeling him talk more than hearing, his gut–bucket voice climbing an octave as it got tighter and tighter.

"Yeah," he said. "
You
know. Somebody went into that house before we did. Blew the fucking front door right off. Couple of people at least, too much for one man. Maybe a whole fucking
team,
not that it matters. When they was done, it wasn't a house no more, it was a fucking crypt. Dead bodies.
Nine
dead bodies. A couple of splatter–jobs, probably with a sawed–off. One inside, one outside. The one outside had a long knife in her hand. The rest of them, all bullets. All nines, in fact. And, oh yeah, one had a broken neck. We found a whole video setup in the basement. Looked like they were gonna make themselves a snuff film…even had a little boy all tied up, ready to go. All kinds of that Satanic horseshit down there too. The two downstairs, they was heeled, cranked off a few rounds. Didn't do 'em no good though—they both bought the farm."

"What's that got to do with—?"

"With
you,
motherfucker? With
you?
That's your work. Ain't a working cop in this town don't know that. Ain't the first time you went psycho like that either. We got a list, motherfucker. And you're on it, big–time."

"I don't know what—"

"You know what happens the next time you fall?" he asked, cutting me off. Like it was new information to me.

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm not into anything."

"You been inside twice," Morales said. "Felony beefs. Hell,
armed
felony beefs. Don't you read the papers, asshole? Three strikes, you're in. One more, and you do the book."

I just nodded, like he knew the score. But he was off the mark—once you put ten years between your last prison sentence and your next conviction, they can't run them wild to habitch you into a down–forever, no parole never, life sentence.

"You wouldn't recognize things inside anymore. It's all changed, Burke. Face it, you're getting old."

"You know what's getting old, Morales? This shit you're putting on me. What do you think, you're gonna clear every homicide in the city by rousting me?"

"This ain't no roust. You see a squad car anywhere? You see any backup? I'm undercover," he said proudly, as though any fool couldn't make him for a cop at a hundred yards.

"What is it, then?"

Morales pulled the lapel of his jacket back just far enough for me to see the shoulder holster. "Assume the position," he growled.

I turned around, my back to him, hands on the trunk of my car. I felt his hands patting me down. When he got to the side pocket of my jacket he reached inside, took out what he found there. I knew what it was—a tiny box of wooden matches. A white box with a black bull's–eye on one side, an address and phone number on the other, with the name of the nightclub in black letters:

TARGETS.

I felt his hands putting the matchbox back, felt him continue all the way down to my ankles. When he stepped back, I turned around, eyes still not meeting his.

"How come you ain't saying nothing about Probable Cause?" he sneered.

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm clean."

"Clean? You'll
never
be clean, motherfucker. You know, I could understand a man doing a murder. Shit happens, right? Man gets up in your face, disrespects you, threatens you, tries to steal your money, fucks with your wife…anything. But a contract hitter, that's the scum of the planet."

Maybe Morales was slicker than I thought. It's an old cop technique—telling you how much they
understand
some crime they think you committed, get you talking. A legacy from his old partner, but he didn't have McGowan's honey–Irish voice. On Morales, "Have a nice day" sounds like a death threat.

But if he was playing that tune, he was in the wrong country. Down where I live, it's not the amateurs who lose their heads who get the respect, it's the ice–men: enforcers, torches, contract killers. I hadn't gone into that house of beasts alone. Max came down from the roof—that was the broken neck. And it was the Prof's scatter–gun that cut down the last of them, the woman with the long knife. The rest, that was me. But even a lunatic like Morales wouldn't believe I'd give up my own family to make a deal. I'd kill
him
first, right where he stood. But this wasn't the time…

"What's that got to do with me?" I said.

"Look, pal, don't waste my time. I know you had something going with McGowan. He was a stone sucker for kids. So he let you slide a few times. Tell me you don't remember that massage parlor just off the Deuce. Tell me you didn't scam me and McGowan so you could total that karate freak. You think I forgot how you Pearl Harbored us that time? Well, you need to know this, punk—McGowan pulled the pin. Retired, understand? Moved down to motherfucking Florida so he could go fishing all the goddamned time. You ain't got a friend on the force anymore, Burke. Too bad too—from where I sit, you could use one."

"You volunteering?" I asked him, meeting his eyes for the first time.

"I'd suck every cock on an AIDS ward first," he snarled, subtle as ever.

As I pulled away in my Plymouth, I glimpsed Morales in my side mirror. Writing something on a pad.

I
hadn't forgotten that massage parlor either. Morales never forgave me for that one. Not for the killing—he would have done that one himself, on the house—he just never forgave me for the double–cross. He's been on me ever since, laser–sighted on my heart, just waiting for a clear shot. I knew he was around, but I didn't know he was that close.

I didn't spot the red Stealth again. But I did spot Roxanne, on Eleventh Avenue near Thirty–ninth, standing with a pair of other hookers—one black with a red wig, the other white, sporting a Dolly Parton blond job. As I cruised up, Roxanne waved, bending forward at the waist, licking her lips. It looked about as sexy as a cow chewing its cud.

I slid the Plymouth to the curb, hit the power–window switch for the passenger side. She leaned into the open window, said, "You looking for a date, honey?"

"Mojo Mary said you wanted to talk to me," I answered.

"You're…"

"Yeah."

She opened the door, climbed inside. A white girl, maybe twenty–two, already sagging from The Life. The combination of cheap overdose perfume, body powder, and stale sweat was overpowering. I turned the AC up a notch as I pulled away. Noticed the blonde standing hip–shot, watching over her shoulder.

"Where do you—?" I asked her.

"There's a parking lot on Thirty–seventh," she said. "Just pull in near the corner. The guy lets us use it."

I found the spot, backed in so the nose of my Plymouth was facing out. Roxanne curled up on the front seat. "This way, if anybody's watching, they'll think it's a head job," she said.

"Okay," I told her, impatient with all this. "What's the deal?"

"What did Mojo Mary tell you?"

"Girl, you think I'm gonna sit here and play games with you? Your time is money, right? So's mine."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told Mary that I was having trouble with my man, okay? I know you…do that kind of thing. So I figured, I could get to meet you that way, like with her introducing us."

"Okay, it worked. Now tell me the rest."

"My man, he's into all kinds of stuff. Powder, mostly. He works me hard, and he treats me hard too."

"So?"

"So he's in jail now. For a little while, then he'll be out. I got to make my move. Now, while he's still inside."

"Talk straight," I told her. This broad could have gangbanged every liar in Congress in the time it took her to get to the point.

"I heard you could get it done…inside. You got friends there. I want you to…take him out, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. I don't do that."

"Listen to me," she whispered harshly, her voice urgent, "he does kids too. Little kids. And he gets money for it.
Lots
of money. If you do it, it's all yours."

"You've got the wrong man, girl. The wrong man on both ends, it sounds like."

"How much would you want? Up front? If I paid—"

"It's not me," I told her. "I don't know what you heard, but you heard wrong. And you damn sure didn't hear it from Mojo Mary either."

"Look, it'd be easy. I know exactly where he—"

"Not now, not ever," I told her, starting the engine. She was still gabbing away when I pulled over at the same spot where I picked her up. The same two hookers were there. As she walked over to join them, the one with the Dolly Parton wig put her arm around Roxanne's shoulders, pulling her close, and walked off with her. The way it looked, soon as Roxanne found someone man enough to snuff her pimp, her next one wouldn't be a man at all.

It wasn't my problem. I cranked the wheel over, headed back downtown.

I
t was only late afternoon, but already I felt tired—like I'd worked all night. I closed my eyes at a traffic light—I could always count on some impatient swine waking me up with a horn blast when it turned green.